


straight out of nowhereness

by jokeperalta



Category: Peep Show
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Morning After, Post-Finale, is it true to peep show's style or just horrendously overworked?? nobody knows!!, mark reluctantly accepting that he and jeremy are in fact boyfriends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-01
Updated: 2018-03-01
Packaged: 2019-03-25 16:46:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13838916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jokeperalta/pseuds/jokeperalta
Summary: Mark awakes to the sound of the dawn chorus and a general feeling that things are somewhat, well...out of placein his life.





	straight out of nowhereness

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not convinced anyone is actually going to read this, but more than anything else I just needed to write it as the culmination of two month’s worth of Mitchell and Webb obsession to the point of sheer insanity. I had to write this. 
> 
> I had to.

Mark awakes to the sound of the dawn chorus and a general feeling that things are somewhat, well...  _out of place_  in his life.

He's on the wrong side of the bed. That much he can tell without even opening his eyes. The perfectly formed grooves and contours he'd lovingly worn into his medium/firm mattress after years of minimum-eight-hour-a-night sleeps (and sadly, very little else) are not hugging his body. Instead he's on the side of the bed that feels relatively new, forcing his body to compensate and all sorts of aches and pains to develop all over.

Next, the feeling of bare cock on clean sheets.

Never good.

Sleeping naked is for barbarians and porn stars, and -whilst the occasional errant fantasy might be entertained every now and again- the lifestyle of either is not for him.

An exploratory hand under the pillow tells him the lump that is throwing his neck out of joint is actually his pyjamas, still folded because for some god forsaken reason his drunken self last night unilaterally decided it was the life of the porn star barbarian that he’d been missing out on all this time.

Still, nothing thus far that an indulgent roll over and a clean set of sheets later wouldn’t fix.

He can handle this. He cracks an eyelid open.

Jeremy is here too. Vague-ish memories of why this might be so occur to him, but mainly it’s the fact that the selfish bastard is on Mark’s side of the bed. Knowing full well the eternal struggle Mark is locked in with back pain.

On the bright side, the more Mark remembers about last night, the less concerned he is about having to break out the orthopaedic electric back massager for his chair.

He’d be mildly reassured that Jeremy is not also naked, if the one item of clothing Jeremy does appear to be wearing is the jumper Mark himself had on last night. The sleeves aren’t long enough on him, stretching the cuffs around his remarkably lanky forearms.

Mark winces. He lifts the duvet up, ever-so-slightly. And yes, in front of him is the bare arse that Mark had hoped to peacefully live his life without ever seeing.

(Not that it’s a bad arse to look at, objectively speaking. But it’s the context that matters.)

This is... not good.

Time for toast.

 

 

—

 

 

Mark sits at the kitchen table, yesterday’s Guardian in front of him and still on the Gary Younge column about the EU that he started trying to read almost an hour ago.

Instead, Mark is staring at the burn mark on the linoleum that Jeremy made just after he moved in. When he burnt his hand on a still-hot frying pan and, for some reason, threw it to the floor instead of back on the hob like any sane person.

In hindsight, that incident really ought to have the last straw. Mark should have turned him out then and there. Got himself a nice, normal flat mate who paid his way more than once in every orbit of Halley’s comet.

Because this -last night- certainly wouldn’t have happened with anyone else.

He’s hardly known for his lightness of foot, yet Jeremy does manage to take him completely by surprise while Mark is still musing on who his former self ought to have poached as a flatmate before the option of Jeremy Usbourne became available.

“Morning!” Jeremy offers breezily.

Mark has the odd feeling as though he’s somehow just been caught cheating.

Mark is about to point out that Jeremy is still wearing his jumper -albeit now with boxer shorts, thankfully- and he’d quite like it back, please. Jeremy, perhaps sensing this, traps him there: one hand on the table, the other on the back of his chair, where he leans down and kisses him.

Full on his open mouth.

It occurs to Mark that he ought to be protesting right about now, or at the very least, voicing mild disapproval of the turn their relationship appears to have taken in the last twenty-four hours. Better late than never, after all.

He doesn’t. Instead, he kisses back. 

It probably has rather the opposite effect than desired, but it’s only polite, really. They did have sex last night, so. 

Jeremy pulls away after one last peck on the lips, and goes about his usual morning routine of vaguely aiming a box of cereal at a bowl and hoping for the best.

(Watching Jeremy brush the spilt flakes into his hand and actually put them in the bin for the first time ever is almost enough to make Mark believe his dick might be invested with some kind of magical powers after all. )

Now would be a good time to have The Talk. Obligatory post-coitus kiss over, Mark can go about the process of letting him down gently— like turning off the life support machine on a sickly relative. Nobody likes doing it in the moment, but... better for everyone in the long run.

Jeremy leans against the counter, shovelling corn flakes into his mouth and chewing like a horse.

He should say something. Anything.

There are many, many, myriad reasons why he absolutely should not let either of them labour under the delusion that last night was anything other than a troubling, bizarre but gun-to-his-head-honestly strangely enjoyable aberration.

And right now, Mark can’t think of even one.

“ _Dave’s_  got a Top Gear marathon on today,” Jeremy says, between chews. He glances sideways at Mark a few times, and if Mark didn't know better he'd say he looked almost nervous. _Come on, brain,_ Mark thinks.  _Don't give up on me now._  “Wanna sit in our pants and make fun of Jeremy Clarkson?”

Mark considers this. Gary Younge stares up at him from the table with knowledgeable, reassuring eyes- as though to say:  _What’s the worst that can happen_? _Brexit’s going to total shit either way._

“Yeah, all right.”

Jeremy smiles behind his spoon. Mark’ll think of something later.


End file.
